


The Dream

by Popcornjones



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Pre and Post Reichenbach, The Reichenbach Fall Spoilers, Unfinished: more to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:45:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Popcornjones/pseuds/Popcornjones





	1. Chapter 1

JOHN

The dream always starts the same way. Sherlock standing atop St. Barts, reaching out his hand to John on the ground. For an instant John thinks their hands will touch, despite the distance. Thinks that he can grab his friend and hold him, pull him back from the precipice. For an instant, Sherlock is in his arms (again). Safe. But there are five stories between them, an uncrossable gulf. John’s mind is reeling, rejecting – Sherlock is not a fraud, Sherlock is not going to jump. But then he does. 

For a long time, months, John would wake to the sound of Sherlock hitting the pavement. Sweating, heart racing, unable to breathe yet still sobbing, he would lie in the dark, grief, sharp and fresh, piercing his heart. 

And then the dream changed. Now John is on the roof, he can see Sherlock standing on the edge – he’s close enough! John CAN save him. He reaches out to pull him back . . . but he pushes Sherlock over the edge instead. A hard shove. Pushes him away. John watches the falling man, helpless. Sherlock’s eyes accuse him, look at him with such sadness and betrayal. “Goodbye, John” He says. Then Sherlock slams into the pavement below. Over and over, John murders his dearest friend. 

The sound of Sherlock impacting the pavement – the ripe, meaty smack of life ending, of genius and vitality snuffed out – echoes. 

\----

John sighed. “Who’s next?” 

“That was your last patient today. You’re done.”

Good. He was exhausted. He wanted nothing more than uninterrupted sleep. Still, he wasn’t looking forward to going home to his too-quiet flat. 

“Are you all right, Dr. Watson?”

“Oh, yes. Sorry, Kathy.” John looked at the new receptionist. She was pretty. She had a ready laugh, an attractive spark of intelligence. Not so long ago, he would have flirted with her, asked her out. “Just a little tired.”

“Out partying to the wee hours?”

John laughed. “No, nothing like that.”

“Well . . . some of us are going down to the pub later – why don’t you join us? I’ll buy you a pint.”

John met her eye. “Yeah, maybe.” He made himself smile. “That sounds fun.”

She smiled back warmly. “Later then.”

“Cheers.”John walked home. He felt cold inside.

\--- 

For weeks after the funeral, John had drunk himself into oblivion every night. He didn’t dream then. He didn’t have to think or feel. The confusion and regret and horror that stalked him retreated. It was pleasant being numb, until one hungover morning he looked in the mirror and saw his sister looking back. Everything he hated about Harry, he saw in his own face. 

That was worse, John realized, than the dream. He had to get himself together.

\------

Regret:  
Three months before Sherlock jumped to his death, when Moriarty was awaiting trial, Sherlock was restless, irritating, more so than usual. John had been spending time away from their flat, which made Sherlock more irritable, which made John want to spend even more time away. Finally they’d had it out.

“I need you HERE, John. I need you to be here.”

“So I can fetch and carry for you? So you can abuse me some more?”

“John . . .”  
“I’m serious, Sherlock, you can get your own damn mobile. No, I don’t care about that. You can be ... nicer to me or you can find another flat mate.”

“Don’t be an idiot, John . . .”

“That’s it! That’s it, I’m going out.” 

Sherlock had gotten in front of him, grabbed his arm. “Wait . . .”

John had laughed. He knew he could take Sherlock – he’d had to prove himself in the army and before that in school. Other men thought to take advantage of his smaller stature, John had never allowed that. 

But as they wrestled, John pulled his punches. He couldn’t bring himself to hurt Sherlock. And more, he could tell Sherlock would not hurt him either. The stalemate enraged him and he grabbed Sherlock by the collar and pulled his face close to say . . . what? Something vile and angry. But the look Sherlock gave him, a look of such naked need, stopped him cold. John, for the first time, saw the terrifying depth of Sherlock’s love for him – this man who walled himself off with his intellect, refused human connection, LOVED him. John saw the vulnerability and fear . . . and desire . . . 

And then they were kissing. Desperate, breathless, hard kisses. 

John had his hands in Sherlock's hair, around his waist, under his shirt. He could feel the stubble on his chin rake Sherlock's cheek, feel Sherlock's panting breath on his neck. John had had many lovers, many experiences, but he had never had such strong arms around him, never been manhandled. He reveled in it.

John let Sherlock pin him against the wall, press his body against him. Let him feel his erection. Wanting Sherlock to feel the hardness of it. He found himself ripping Sherlock’s shirt open even as he tried to pull him closer, kiss him harder, deeper. He felt Sherlock undoing his pants, tugging them down. “Yes!” He was gasping.

Then Sherlock was on his knees, one hand still on John’s chest pressing him to the wall, the other grabbing his cock. Time stood still, the anticipation unbearable. “Yeeeesss. . .” And Sherlock took his cock in his mouth and sucked his dick. Sucked. His. Hard. Cock. “Jeeessus!” Sherlock's beautiful mouth on him.

John grabbed at Sherlock’s dark curls, pressed him closer, thrust his hips . . . then realized how rough he was being and let go. “I’m sorry ... I didn’t mean... “

“Shut up, John. Just . . .” Sherlock was kissing him again, his hand still on John’s cock, working it. “I want you to . . . I want you.” 

I want you to own me, his eyes said, I want you to possess me completely.

John took control. Somehow, with his pants trying to trip him, he pushed Sherlock onto the couch, both of them fumbling at Sherlock’s belt and zipper, scrambling to get his clothes off. John took a breath, slowed himself. “You’re sure?”

“Yes! Yes.” Sherlock was panting, bracing himself. 

"Ok." John caressed Sherlock, kissed him. "Wait here."

John kicked his pants off, looked around. He grabbed the butter dish off the kitchen counter, set it by the couch. He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it next to Sherlock. Sherlock grabbed his hand, pulled him onto the couch, kissed him again. John felt Sherlock's hands on his skin, searching fingers finding his nipple and pinching it gently. John caught his breath. "Ready?" 

"Yes, I want it. I want you." 

It was John's turn to manhandle. He shoved Sherlock onto his knees, pushed him over the arm of the couch. Sherlock was trembling. "Don't worry," He whispered. "We'll go slowly." He took a dollop of butter from the dish onto his finger and pressed it against Sherlock’s arsehole. “Is this . . .” He pressed his finger in. “. . . what you want?” 

“Ah! Yesss!” John placed his other hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck and pressed him down. He put another buttery finger up Sherlock’s arse and finger fucked him. 

“Is this what you want?!”

“I want your cock. Fuck me with your cock.” And John had spread butter on himself and pressed his dick (his hard, eager dick) against Sherlock’s hole. “Oh, god, fuck me, John!” He whispered. 

John reached around and took hold of Sherlock's stiff dick. He stroked it up and down as he pushed in. He felt Sherlock tense.

“Don’t stop, John, please don’t stop.”

“Ok, slow down.” John caressed Sherlock’s back, tracing the too-prominent ribs. He jacked Sherlock's cock until he felt him start to relax, his breath even out. John slowly eased himself in, taking his time. He moved his hand faster, gripped more firmly. Sherlock moaned with pleasure. Once again, John pressed Sherlock down, held him. Slowly he started to move against him. “How’s that?”

Tentatively, “Good.” 

John moved just a little faster. “You like that?”

“Yes. . . yes!”

“Is this what you want? You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes! Fuck me. Please, fuck me, John.”

And he was. He was fucking Sherlock, owning him, possessing him, and it was SO GOOD. He felt Sherlock orgasm beneath him as he thrust, heard his cries of pleasure. And then he was coming, coming hard, shooting his wad into Sherlock with a shout.

He collapsed, weak-kneed. John’s damp chest pressed against Sherlock’s back, his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, smelling the scent of Sherlock’s skin, tasting his sweat with little kisses, laughing, spent and content. They spooned on the couch and John must have dozed off for a moment.

He woke suddenly, with a start.

Sherlock whispered, "You shudder a little as you fall asleep."

"What?" He sat up.

"I love you, John.”

John would do anything to live the next moment over. To not feel the wash of panic. To not stiffen and pull away. To not reject what he had just accepted with his whole heart, leaving behind the happiness and the honesty he had felt loving another man. No, loving THIS man. Loving Sherlock. 

“Are you OK?” He asked, stepping away.

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock stood, turned toward John.

But John had already turned away. “Why don’t you get yourself cleaned up. We can talk later.” 

–––

John left the flat and walked briskly but without direction. He had plans to meet up with Stamford, but his thoughts were racing. He couldn’t face anyone. He texted apologies and turned off his mobile. 

He had WANTED Sherlock. He had initiated the sex. He had taken control and made it happen. He’d had no idea he was even capable of doing that, let alone wanting it so much. He still wanted it. He wanted Sherlock.

John tried to accept it, but something in him rejected the very idea of being with a man. He’d never thought that he was homophobic, and he was not proud to find that when it came to himself, he really was. 

Oh god, he hadn’t used a condom. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

As he walked he mourned his friendship with Sherlock. This was the worst part – in 30 minutes he had ruined the most important relationship in his life. There could be no going back to what they were. 

He couldn’t believe how *everything* had changed just like that.

But when they finally sat down to talk, Sherlock asked him to stay through Moriarty’s trial. The threat Moriarty posed was greater than the discomfort between them.

They settled uneasily back into the shape of their friendship. Moriarty’s trial began and the distraction made them less awkward. John attended the trial, sat in the gallery every day and reported back to Sherlock. When Moriarty was set free, John called to warn Sherlock, then set out at at dead run for Baker street terrified he would not get there in time to . . . what? Protect Sherlock? Back him up? *Keep him safe.* 

And then Sherlock had jumped and John was left to dream over and over his failure to save his friend, to hear the sound of flesh impacting on pavement, brilliant life ending. John, with bitter clarity, knew then that he had been a coward. He had thrown away a chance at real happiness.

Worse, he had denied Sherlock that happiness.

\---

John went to the pub and met up with Kathy. He wouldn’t have, but Lestrade had called.

“Greg.”

“John. I have this case – I’m not getting anywhere with it. Would you be able to come take a look around?”

“Don’t expect any miracles.”

“You always say that.”

“Give me the address.”

The investigation team was long gone when Lestrade led John past the police tape into the posh, fourth floor flat. “Body was here at the desk, bullet to the head, not self-inflicted. No gun found. Doors and windows all locked up tight. Victim was some kind of banker. Minor gambling habit, mostly sports. We haven’t found any enemies – actually we haven’t found any friends, just co-workers, neighbors, no one close. No family. If someone had a grudge, they didn’t advertise.” Lestrade looked at John. “Take your time.”

Sherlock was fast, he would see everything in seconds and be able to draw accurate conclusions. His talent was special, genius. However, John had learned, anyone could teach themselves to ‘notice’ and deduce, to use Sherlock’s method. It was a slow process for John and he was certain he missed much of what Sherlock would have seen, but if he gave himself enough time and really LOOKED, let things sink in, sometimes he could find things others had missed. 

John stood in the center of the main room. The floor plan was relatively open and he could see into the kitchen, dining area and study alcove. He took his time, just looking, absorbing. The decor was masculine, strong blues and browns. The flat was very tidy and extremely clean, but the open drawer of the desk was in disarray. He walked to the kitchen, opened a cupboard and found pots and plates stacked together. The refrigerator contained wine, yogurt and half-empty takeout tins. There was a vase of dying roses on the dining table. John walked to the bedroom. Maroon curtains and duvet. The bed was made. On top of the dresser, pushed to one side, was a dish of change, keys, wallet, and a small box with a few items of good jewelry – cuff links, ID bracelet, school ring – nothing feminine. John opened the top drawer: socks. The second drawer had a jumble of underwear, undershirts and handkerchiefs. The third drawer was empty. The fourth and fifth drawers contained casual clothes, jeans, T-shirts, jumpers. In the closet, John found suits, shirts, pants and jackets on hangars some doubled up although there were extra hangars shoved to the side. There was a shoe rack half filled with shoes and more shoes next to the rack, partially obscured by a pile of laundry. John closed the closet and walked to the master bath. It too was pristine: nothing on the countertop but bar soap and fresh towels. The garbage had been taken away. The drawers were full of grooming supplies – brush, razor, shaving brush and foam, aftershave, cotton swabs. The medicine cabinet held toothbrush and paste, floss, mouthwash, deodorant, Hair grooming cream, comb and various over-the-counter medicines. All on the left side. John turned toward the tub. It was an old-fashioned claw tub with a shower curtain. He pulled it back. One bottle of shampoo, bar soap, wash cloth. John sat on the edge of the tub and looked around the bathroom again. He lifted the shower curtain. Behind it on the far side of the tub was a pastel razor. 

“Greg?” John called, “Did you question the girlfriend?”

“There wasn’t one.”

John held up the razor. “There was and I’d bet she killed him or knows who did. She cleared out all of her things pretty thoroughly.” John showed Lestrade the medicine cabinet and the empty dresser drawer. “Plus the flowers, the wine and yogurt, the apartment made tidy by putting things haphazardly in cupboards: girlfriend.”

“How about the locked doors?”

“He gave her a drawer, he gave her a key.”

“Right. I’ll see if the neighbors can give us a description. . . John, would you come look at his effects? They’re at the morgue.”

“St. Bart’s?”

“Yeah.” Lestrade paused. “Is that a problem?”

John released a breath. “No.”

“You should take better care of yourself, you look like shit.”

“Cheers.”

–––

The victim’s effects revealed nothing to John. He poked through them a few times, but they were just clothes and the things a man might have in his pockets. Sherlock may have made something more of them. 

*Sherlock.* 

John knew he was distracted, not really focusing on the job at hand. It had been a mistake to come here. He turned to leave and walked right into Molly.

“Molly! Sorry. How have you been?” She looked terrified. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” She said in a small voice. “Well, you know.”

“Yes.” For a moment it all showed on his face, a portrait of loss. 

Molly reached out a comforting hand. “He loved you, you know.” 

John gave her a sharp look. 

“Not like that. I mean, I saw the way he looked when he didn’t think you could see.”

“How’s that?” John couldn’t seem to catch his breath.

“That last day, I think he knew, I mean, obviously he must have been thinking about it. Jumping. The way he looked at you, he was so sad, it nearly broke my heart.”

“Molly . . .”

“I was replaceable to him. If I’d taken another job, he would have found someone else to help him. Same with Inspector Lestrade, I’m not saying he didn’t like us, I think he did. He liked having people he could count on. But if we weren’t there, someone else would be. But not you. If you weren’t there, he would have been alone.”

“He told me he wanted to be alone.”

“You know he didn’t.”

“Why are you telling me this?” 

“Just . . . he loved you. That has to be worth something.”

“Why wouldn’t he tell me what he was planning? Why wouldn’t he let me help him? Why did he send me away?”

Molly looked down. Softly she said, “Maybe . . . to protect you. . .”

Everything falls into place: Moriarty. 

–––

Lestrade caught up with John by the exit, saw how drawn and gray John looked. “I shouldn’t have brought you here, John. I forget that you were there. C’mon, I’ll get you a cab.” 

“He wasn't a fraud, Greg. He was for real."

Lestrade put his hand on John's shoulder, guided him to the door. "No, Sherlock wasn't a fraud. I don't know why he jumped, but it wasn't the way they said in the papers."

"Sometimes when I get home, I swear he’s been there, in the flat.”

“John, we have to move on. He’s gone. You have to move on.”

“I know.” 

\---

Kathy was surprised to see him. 

John gave her his best smile. “You invited me. I said I would come.”

“But you didn’t mean it.”

“Well . . .”

“You have the saddest eyes, Dr. Watson.”

“Call me John.”

A pretty smile. “John.”

“I lost someone close to me a while ago.” He was surprised he could say it outright, without it overwhelming him.

“Someone you still miss a lot.”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to talk about it? John.”

“I think . . . it’s time to move on.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Yes, it is. Yes.”

–––

John learned that Kathy was an artist, that she worked at the surgery to pay her rent but spent her time painting portraits and large figural canvases. She invited him to her studio: it was sunny and light and she inhabited it fully (as Sherlock had inhabited their Baker St. flat). He brought takeout and watched her work.

She asked to paint his portrait, he agreed a bit embarrassed. She painted him as a lost puppy with large sad eyes. His embarrassment grew. 

“Is that what I look like to you? Sad and lost?”

“A little . . . yes.” 

He stepped closer to her, leaned in and kissed her. A good kiss. Kathy kissed him back, soft and sweet. (So different from the last time he was kissed.) After, he looked her in the eyes. “How about now?”

She laughed and pushed him away. “You are SAD, John Watson, using your puppy-dog eyes to get under a girl’s skin.”

Kathy was easy to be around, easy to like. John enjoyed their conversations. He enjoyed siting silently with her, reading the papers. They took walks. They went to the pub after work. He took her out to dinner at a nice restaurant and they drank wine and laughed a lot. After, he touched her hair and drew her into his arms. She was soft and slight and felt wonderful. 

Every scrap of affection John gave her made him feel guilty. Every night he reached towards Sherlock teetering on the edge, wanting desperately to grab him back, pull him to safety, never let him go. Every night he pushed him over instead, endured the pain in Sherlock’s eyes as he slipped away. He couldn’t stand himself.

\---

Kathy painted John’s portrait again. This time he was a ghost, insubstantial, untouchable with melancholy eyes. Haunting and haunted.

He looked at it for a long time. Then Kathy pushed him down onto her couch and straddled him, kissed him. John let her. He held her and they kissed for a while. He tracked her growing arousal, felt his own. But when she started to unbutton his pants, he stopped her. 

Kathy sighed, her frustration palpable. “We need to talk, John.”

“Yes. . .” He didn’t know what to say.

“You lost someone you cared about very much. Your girlfriend? Your wife?”

“No.” A wave of sadness cresting, crashing down on him, pulling him under. “I lost a friend. My best friend.” John gathered his thoughts for a moment. “I told you I served in Afghanistan. When I got back, I wasn’t in great shape.” John grimaced ruefully, “Anyway . . . this friendship saved me. Gave me a purpose again. Excitement. It’s hard to describe.”

Kathy was quiet for a while. Then: “John, are you gay?”

John laughed out loud. “No.” He couldn’t stop laughing.

“Hey,” Kathy said, “It’s OK.” She held him. John realized he wasn’t laughing, he was crying.

“I wasn’t brave enough. I wasn’t brave enough to . . . let myself love him the way I wanted to. The way he deserved. He was smarter than I was about that, which was odd – he was terrible with feelings and relationships. But he was right about us. But I couldn’t . . I didn’t . . . and then he . . . died . . . and it’s too late. I would do ANYTHING for him to not be dead. To have my friend back.” John shuddered. “But I can’t. I could have made him happy, could have been happy, but I was too stupid to see beyond “GAY,” being gay, what that would mean for me. Too stupid to see how precious and fleeting love can be. Too stupid to grab what was right in front of me before it was just gone . . . I can’t forgive myself.” John sat up and wiped the tears off his face. “I’m trying so hard to move on, to just get over it, but half the time, I still expect him to walk into our flat. I’m sorry, Kathy. I’m sorry. I really like you. You are great. But the timing . . . I’m sorry.”

\---

That night in John’s dream, he and Sherlock sit on the edge of the roof together, their fingers just touching. “I love you too, Sherlock. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you. I miss you so much.”

John turns to Sherlock, to put his arms around him, to kiss him. But Sherlock is slipping off the ledge, falling away from John, colliding with the sidewalk with a sickening thump.

John jerks awake, bereft


	2. Chapter 2

SHERLOCK

Sherlock hates being dead.

Mycroft – along with Molly – provided Sherlock the means to survive his suicide: the operatives and equipment on the ground to carry out the illusion, to convince John (John) – and the assassin with John in their gunsights – that he jumped to his death. Mycroft provides him places to live, identities, money, equipment. 

The price is steep: Mycroft clucks over Sherlock incessantly, driving him to new lows of petulance.

But Mycroft also provides him the means to dismantle Moriarty’s operation. 

Sherlock has been rooting out Moriarty’s failsafes, his deadman triggers. Even hiding Moriarty’s death as they have, there are people who suspect, who look for revenge. Dangerous, cunning people. It has been satisfying, very satisfying, following the trails, solving the puzzles, neutralizing the threats. He has pursued leads across Europe, hunted in New York City and Sao Paulo, chased Moriarty's agents though Hong Kong to Mumbai and back 'round to London. A merry, invigorating chase.

But it’s not enough.

*Sentiment.* He cannot keep it at bay.

The chemistry of sentiment is simple, Sherlock understands that. The experience of sentiment is crippling. Sherlock wants to set it aside, as he once did, not feel the dreaded chemicals rushing through his brain. To not feel the symptoms of withdrawal. 

To not feel.

Sherlock has found himself . . . pining . . . for his former life in the Baker street flat. He wants Mrs. Hudson to bring him tea, “just this once.” He wants to look out the window and see Lestrade climbing the front steps, bringing him a case. He wants his experiments and equipment, his dressing gown and his violin. He wants to talk and know that John is listening. 

John. 

“He’s my friend.” 

Above all, Sherlock regrets that John had to be there when he jumped. Had to see. Sherlock cannot forget John’s agony, the searching touch on his wrist. 

John had held him once. Sherlock can remember the weight of his body, the way their skin felt pressed together, can feel John’s fingers in his hair, his breath on his neck. His lips. (The smell of sweat and semen, John's wadded-up shirt sticking to his chest. John settling gently into sleep, Sherlock's own thoughts blessedly, astonishingly placid.) It had been . . . incredibly intimate. The most unbearably intimate experience Sherlock had ever had, yet it was still . . . right. It had been a perfect moment, the sense of belonging to each other, of being so cared for, so loved. The togetherness was intoxicating. 

Like a bright light flooding a dark room, Sherlock had suddenly understood why people wanted sex with one another, pursued relationships, marriages, children – they would do anything for THIS feeling. It was a drug. It was the best high Sherlock had ever known. 

He used to live only for the chase. Now he is an addict.

\---

Sherlock receives an email from Mycroft entitled “Happy Birthday, Little Brother.” He lets it sit in his inbox unopened for several days. 

There is no message, just an attached video file made up of footage from two London CCTV cameras. There is no sound. The time stamp is 10:18 p.m. nine days previous. 

On the video, John emerges from a pub with a woman. The camera is about two meters above their heads, approximately ten meters away – mounted across the street on a building or light pole. John is tidy as always but his clothes hang on him differently: he has lost weight. At least half a stone, probably more. There are dark smudges under his eyes, a tension in his jaw: he’s not sleeping well. Sherlock strains to see more. The video is frustratingly grainy, he cannot make out enough detail for concrete conclusions. John says something to the woman, smiling slightly: he’s comfortable with her. Fond. 

Sherlock examines the woman. She is petite, short hair, little makeup but good bones. She is dressed casually – Sherlock notes the unusual color combination she wears, the sculptural, possibly handmade jumper. Some kind of artist? Stylist? It’s irritating to not know. She is holding John’s arm with both her hands, leaning into him. When he speaks to her, she laughs and leans her head on his shoulder. She has staked her claim.

Then John’s demeanor changes completely. He goes very still, his face grim. A third person has entered the camera’s sphere, walking towards John and the woman: Sergeant Donovan. Sherlock only sees her back, but there is no mistaking her. Donovan’s posture is aggressive. She stops in front of John, presumably she is speaking. John’s woman friend speaks, asks a question. She glances at John, Sherlock can see her growing alarm.

John radiates danger: a coiled snake, a cornered animal. Donovan either doesn’t realize or doesn’t care. More likely she knows John will not use violence against a woman and is taking advantage. 

John says something, then turns and quickly walks away. He has moved so suddenly and forcefully, the woman with him is left behind. Donovan gestures, still hectoring. John’s friend turns to follow him, but Donovan puts a restraining hand on her arm. Sherlock can see Donovan’s profile now, she is smirking as she speaks. The other woman looks distressed, then angry. She pulls her arm away and hurries after John. Donovan stands still for a long moment. 

The scene replays from a different camera, mounted somewhat lower, behind John and his friend. They exit the pub, she wraps her arms through his and leans into him. He stops walking, his body completely rigid, and Sherlock can see Donovan from the front now, greeting John. Sherlock can clearly read her lips. “I see you’re keeping better company these days, Dr. Watson.” Donovan listens for a moment, then: “Dr. Watson hasn’t told you about how he used to ‘help’ the police department ‘solve’ crimes? He hasn't told you how he and his ‘friend’ (she leers) conned Scotland Yard? Did he con you too, Dr. Watson, or were you in on it?”

John very suddenly jerks away, turns and walks quickly towards then past the camera. His face is drained of color, a mask of anger and anguish. 

“You had to be in on it!” Donovan calls after him. She restrains his friend. Don't let him play you for a fool too.” Then the smaller woman pulls away and runs after John, her features a war of curiosity and . . . calculation?

Donovan stares after them, shaking with rage.

No matter how many times Sherlock plays the video, he cannot tell what John says to Donovan. 

Nor can he deduce Mycroft’s purpose in giving it to him. 

\---

Mycroft summoned John a few weeks after the funeral. 

“What do you want, Mycroft?” John refused to look Mycroft in the eye, his fury palpable.

"Sit down." Mycroft gestured at a chair.

"I don't want to sit down."

"You're looking haggard, John. You should take better care of yourself."

"Get to the point, Mycroft."

Mycroft placed a letter on the desk in front of him. “John. My brother communicated some instructions before he . . . well. He wanted to set your mind at ease financially.”

“I’m not interested.”

“John, I’m going to honor my brother’s requests. Hear me out. He asked that the rent on 221b Baker St. be taken care of for as long as you wish to live there.” Mycroft smiled. “He was rather insistent that you should continue to live there. He left you the contents of the flat.”

John nodded once, his mouth a tight line. “Are we done?”

“Not quite. I would ask that you not dispose of Sherlock’s possessions right away. Perhaps at some future time . . . when emotions aren’t running so high, I could choose a memento. With your permission, of course.”

“Emotions? Do you even HAVE emotions about Sherlock’s death?” Now it was Mycroft who could not meet John's gaze. 

“I know you blame me . .. “

“You don’t blame yourself!?”

“I made mistakes.”

“And Sherlock paid for them.” John strode to the exit. “I was there, Mycroft. I can’t forget.”

After he left, Mycroft called, “You can come in.”

Sherlock pushed open the door from the adjoining room. “That went poorly.” More than anything, Sherlock wanted to go after John.

“He’s devastated.” Mycroft studied his brother. “And so are you, if I’m not mistaken. Do you need a cigarette?” 

“He has saved my life, I returned the favor.”

“Come, Sherlock. I know you better than that.”

“You’ve always approved of John.”

“Yes. Dependable, modest, stalwart, a plethora of hidden talents – not least his ability to put up with you. But I didn’t expect you’d grow so attached.”

“John has no agenda. He has never asked anything of me.”

“No? Yet you’ve given quite a lot, it seems. Don't forget he has been used against you already.”

“So have you.”

\---

Sherlock is almost certain he has found all of Moriarty’s tentacles. But, as Mycroft reminds him, he has to be thorough. “Lives depend on it.” It has taken too long. 

How does a dead man rejoin the living? How does the Phoenix rise from the ashes? Life has left Sherlock behind.

Sherlock has kept track. He knows what cases Lestrade works, he knows that Mrs. Hudson has been turning to her 'herbal soothers' more often. He knows she worries about John.

He knows that John got pissed for 26 consecutive days, then abruptly stopped drinking. 

He knows John returned to writing his blog, started replying to the enquiries that still came into Sherlock’s website ‘The Science of Deduction.’ Sherlock had been very interested to see John teaching himself to use Sherlock’s techniques. John is slow and he misses the most obvious things. He doesn’t make the connections that Sherlock finds so simple, but he has solved cases, helped people. Lestrade has even asked him to consult from time to time. If he didn’t look so drawn and thin, Sherlock would say that John has flourished. 

John is seeing someone. 

Sherlock can’t seem to get past this fact. John is seeing a woman. Sherlock had never been jealous of the drab English roses John brought round their flat PER SE. He admits he begrudged the time John spent with them, the attention he gave them. But they themselves were pleasant enough. Sherlock did not see their necessity. But he knows one day John will find a woman he likes and will move out of Baker St. and settle down with her. 

Sherlock knows this is inevitable, but that does not make it palatable. It made him churlish towards John’s girlfriends. It made him want to punish John in childish ways. 

Is this the woman John will choose? If Sherlock could lay eyes on her, see them together, he would know.

To this end (he tells himself), he follows John. When he was alive, he would regularly follow John: if Mycroft sent a car or when John was making headway on a case. Or when Sherlock was bored. Or, he admits to himself, just to know what John was doing, to be close to him. Now when he shadows John, he embraces his loneliness, draws it about him like a cloak. Denies the urgency in his gut. 

He watches John and repeats to himself: “What could I possibly need from you?” 

*What I need from you.*

Irene Adler had awakened desire in Sherlock. He did not trust her, so there was no question of being with her. But even after she left his life, the desire lingered. 

When had he known that he desired John? Maybe he always had, right from the start. Maybe it was so gradual, like the movement of icebergs, that it could not be detected until it was upon him. 

What could I possibly need from you? 

*Everything.* 

\---

Sherlock has been back to 221b Baker St three times. 

It’s a risk, but he can’t make himself stay away. He sits in his chair or at his desk, careful not to lose himself in thought, lose track of time. Careful not to touch things. He breathes the air that John and Mrs. Hudson breathe. 

John has piled most of Sherlock’s things in his bedroom and shut the door. It’s haphazard, yet nothing is broken or damaged. Nothing has been given away. Books are stacked, equipment boxed. Sherlock’s violin lay on his pillow waiting to be picked up. The skull was next to it until his last visit, then the skull was back on the mantle. That day, Sherlock found the blasted butter dish on his bed table. He sat on the bed – (someone had cleared a space, someone had sat there) – and contemplated the butter dish.

It had been a mistake. Despite how he felt about John, Sherlock knew it would be a mistake. He knew John did not feel the same way and their friendship was enough. Sherlock didn’t even WANT a physical relationship. The infrequent fumblings in his youth had convinced him that it was messy, unnecessary and counterproductive to rational thought. 

But rational thought had played no part in the incident. Sherlock had not realized how powerful the urge could be (powerful enough to make him beg, the memory makes him blush). He still isn’t sure why John had been willing – more than willing, as eager as Sherlock himself had been. Sherlock is grateful that John was experienced: John had been deft and while not gentle, able to control himself when Sherlock had been too eager. He had expected it to be painful, violent (yet still he had wanted it, wanted John), but John had been so careful, so skillful, that the pleasure overwhelmed him. Sherlock often finds himself reflecting on John’s skill. Which leads to other distracting reflections that he cannot seem to banish from his mind.

That it had happened at all surprised him. That John was not interested in it happening again did not. Sherlock had forgiven him that easily. But when John had just walked away afterwards, it had crushed him. He did not know anything could hurt so unbearably. The highest high led to excruciating withdrawal. 

Sherlock had not known what to do. He did not understand why – WHY – John had reacted the way he did. 

It was three days before they talked. Three days of John avoiding Sherlock and the flat and especially the couch. Three days of trying to think clearly, rationally, about an irrational situation. Three days of FEELINGS, dreadful feelings, he had no idea what to do with. Three days playing his violin until his fingers ached, attempting to to lose himself in the music.

Sherlock was still playing when John came into the living room and sat in his chair. 

John cleared his throat. “Sherlock. . .”

Sherlock dropped his bow. “Are we talking now?”

“Sherlock, I’m sorry . . .”

“Don’t!”

“I’M SORRY I didn’t use a condom. It was completely irresponsible. I tested clean for STDs about a year ago, but we should go get tested again.”

“You go. If you’re clean, I’m clean.”

“It’s not that simple . . .”

“It is. I’ve never had sex before, so . . .”

“You’ve never had sex with a . . . man.”

“No. I’ve never had sex with anyone, John.”

“But . . . Irene Adler . . .”

“No.” 

John sat back in his chair, disbelief on his face. 

“But you’re 36!”

“So?!”

“Sherlock . . .!?”

“I never wanted the distraction. My WORK is what is important, John. You know that.” Sherlock paced to the window impatiently. “I honestly don’t know what possessed me to try it now.” Sherlock looked at John: “It’s not something I want to repeat.”

John, met his eye, held his gaze and smiled just a little. Sherlock felt his heart race, his cheeks flush. He looked away, miserable. 

“Yes, you do.” John said.

“John, I need your help with Moriarty. Sex is too complicated, there’s too much I don’t grasp. I need – WE need – to set it aside and deal with this threat. You know what he’s capable of. I have to stop him and I need your help.”

John sat still for a long moment. “OK.” he said, then he got up and left the room

The fear that John would leave him sat tightly on Sherlock’s chest until the day Moriarty was acquitted and John burst into their flat red-faced and hyperventilating, having sprinted from the courthouse. Sherlock knew then they were still friends.


	3. Chapter 3

AN INTERLUDE WITH KATHY BECAUSE NONE OF THIS IS HER FAULT, RIGHT?

John is still depressed, still not sleeping well. But he IS sleeping with her. After she got him to admit that he’d been in love with his friend, he seemed to let go of some of his inner torment. He’d relaxed and they'd started a real relationship.

That there were three of them in the relationship, she had no illusions. Sherlock loomed over John. Kathy hoped time and intimacy would lessen the hurt, loose his tongue. She wanted to know as much as possible about Sherlock. 

Sherlock was, after all, her rival. Honestly, she hated him. And she hated that John held his memory so close.

Not that she blamed him. Kathy had known someone like that, a force of nature more than a man. He had changed her, helped her become her best self. She understood John’s devotion even as she resented it. 

Despite his moping, John was a good man: decent, smart, witty, often fun to be with. She quite liked him. He was damaged, but who wasn't? She'd had worse boyfriends for worse reasons. But if he’d been an inept or even perfunctory lover, Kathy could not have borne it. She appreciated very much that John was good in bed. It made up for a lot.

He had surprised her. She’d expected sweet, not the imaginative, skillful lover who fucked her silly. He had attended to her pleasure before his own, delighting in her body and his ability to make her climax. There was no fumbling, no embarrassment, no miscommunication. Just his body and hers working together as he whispered filthy things in her ear.

For the length of their lovemaking, he was hers entirely. 

“You’ve really exceeded expectations, Dr. Watson.”

John laughed. “It’s been a long time.” 

His laughter faded and he looked away. And here’s Sherlock, she thought, right on cue.

Later she woke abruptly. John’s sleep was agitated. He was talking: “No . . . don’t . . . He’s my friend . . . He’s my friend . . .”

\----

“John, can I ask you about Sherlock?"

"Sure. Yes."

"I've been reading your blog. He was so vital, so alive – it doesn't seem right that he would kill himself. Was it what they said in the papers, he couldn’t handle the disgrace?”

John had turned on her, furious, frightening her a little. She watched his anger drain away, the hopelessness return.

“Sherlock was not a fraud. If you had met him, you would know he was for real. There was no way he could have faked the things he was able to do. He did not . . . DID NOT create Jim Moriarty. Moriarty was not an actor. He kidnapped me, he strapped explosives to my chest . . . he killed people as if they meant nothing. Moriarty created the fiction that Sherlock was a fraud to destroy him."

"I wish I had met him, Sherlock." 

"It wasn't right that he killed himself – he didn't really care what anyone thought of him. Moriarty had some kind of leverage on Sherlock, he . . . forced him to jump somehow. He murdered Sherlock and discredited him and he got away with it. 

“Murdered . . . you didn’t put that on your blog.”

“I can’t prove it. But I know it.”

“What happened to Moriarty?” Kathy savored the name. 

“I don’t know. The last I saw him was in the reporter’s flat.”

“When he claimed to be someone else, Rich Brook?” 

“Yes.”

“John, are you afraid he’ll come after you again?”

“Moriarty was never after me – it was Sherlock he wanted. He just used me to get to him. I have to live with that, with what he did to Sherlock . . . he doesn’t need to kill me.”

“Oh, John, I’m so sorry.” 

\----

Kathy painted his portrait again: A man carrying a heavy burden, the shadow of a bird of prey falling across his face. 

When she showed it to him, he said, “I’m starting to think you have an agenda.”

She laughed. “Always.”

“What do I have to do to be a handsome prince?”

“I don’t know. Sweep me off my feet?”

“Didn’t I do that last night? And the night before?”

Kathy laughed again. “I’m a very lucky woman.” She paused. “You talk in your sleep you know.”

His eyes clouded: Kathy's painting come to life. 

“What do I say?”

“He’s my friend.” For an instant, she saw the depth of his devastation.

“Kathy, why do you put up with me? It can’t be fun.”

She just shrugged and kissed him.

\-----

Kathy walked with John through the park. It was bright and pretty, but cold. She shivered and John put his arm around her. She snuggled against him and he held her tighter. She liked the moments like this when she could feel his affection.

“I told Mrs. Hudson I’d have tea with her today. Do you want to come over later?”

Kathy hates John’s flat. She hates how Mrs. Hudson just walks in whenever she likes. She’s lovely, of course, and she does a lot for John, but it’s like he lives with his mum. 

AND John’s flat is still filled with Sherlock’s possessions. It’s creepy. John lives in a mausoleum. 

She’d asked him about it. “Isn’t it time to donate his things? They’re just sitting in there, right?” She’d indicated Sherlock’s bedroom. 

He’d frowned. “His brother asked that I keep it all here for now.”

“His brother?”

“Mycroft.” John was somewhere else now, his face grim. “I don’t know how he can live with himself.” 

“What do you mean?”

“The Holmes brothers had this in common: they both thought they were right, always; they both thought they were invincible. Moriarty used one to take down the other – that would have destroyed any other man.”

“Not Mycroft?”

“Moriarty called him ‘the iceman.’”

“It’s awfully sentimental of ‘the iceman’ to want Sherlock’s things kept intact.”

“I don’t think sentiment plays any part.”

“Wouldn’t it be better for you to let his things go?”

“I don’t know, Kathy.” 

She’d gone into Sherlock’s bedroom once when John was in the shower and poked around. It was just STUFF taking up space. WHY did the brother want it kept – and kept here? It was suspicious.

“Kath? Do you want to come over later?”

“Hmm, can I let you know? I want to get some painting done tonight.”

“OK.” He kissed her goodbye. She grabbed his jacket and pulled him in for a second kiss. 

“When are you going to move in with me?” She asked.

He smiled at her. “That’s an interesting question.”

She watched him walk away


	4. Chapter 4

Chapters 4 & 5 still to come. Thank you for reading.


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